


Slide

by minchout



Series: Blind Spots [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Prison, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minchout/pseuds/minchout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short look at Jensen’s life in prison after Jared is released. Please heed the warnings here. JDM is not a good guy in this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slide

_Inside_  
  
Jensen remembered vividly the last time he saw Jared on the inside. They moved him into protective custody a week before his release date. Jensen couldn’t be sure why. It wasn’t standard procedure unless there was reason to believe the inmate was in danger. Maybe he was a rat, or maybe someone had just seen him breathe wrong and had decided to hit him before his release. Who knew? There were a hundred reasons someone might need protective custody and none of them were pretty.   
  
Jared was just as surprised as Jensen if the look on his face when the guard called his name that morning was anything to go by. Jensen had stood completely frozen, hands in fists against the fronts of his thighs as he watched the guards manacle Jared to get him ready for transfer.   
  
When Jared went to protest, said breathlessly, “What? No. That’s not right,” the guard gripped his bicep hard, said, “You aren’t gonna give us trouble, are you big boy? Not this close to your release date.”  
  
Jared snapped his mouth shut, looking wide-eyed at Jensen, looking as scared as Jensen felt. “No, sir,” he mumbled when the guard gave him a shake.  
  
“Good.”  
  
And that had been that. They got Jared moving, shouted “Close number nine!” and Jensen’s cell door slid shut and he couldn’t even peer around the bars far enough to watch Jared walk away.   
  
Jensen lay wide-awake all that night in Jared’s bunk. He turned onto his side and pressed his back against the concrete wall and kept his eyes open until they were so dry he had to blink rapidly to take the blur from his vision. He didn’t know what he was watching for. It wasn’t like anything could get through the bars and come for him. Still, he didn’t sleep.   
  
In the morning, the guards brought him a new cell mate, and though Jensen had never been a bully in prison, when he saw the kid was young and wet behind the ears, bean-pole thin but tall as Jared, he crowded the boy back against the wall, his forearm pressed to the boy’s neck until he was gasping, his mouth open like a fish’s, tears tracing down his cheeks.  
  
“I’m the boss in this cell, got it?” Jensen said. “You’re the fish.”  
  
“Yeah,” the boy rasped, squirming, his hand clutching at Jensen’s arm. “Yessir,” he slurred.   
  
“You get the bottom bunk. You don’t talk unless I say you talk. You don’t piss unless I say you piss. Don’t shit until I say.” He punctuated every new rule with a little jab of his arm into the kid’s soft throat.   
  
When Jensen finally pulled away, the kid was nodding, and his knees were barely keeping him vertical.   
  
“Yessir,” he was saying. “Yessir,” over and over again, and it made Jensen sick right down to his core, and he wasn’t sure if he was sick at himself or sick at this kid for being so goddamned weak in the same way Jensen had been without Jared.   
  
The kid gave Jensen his space, but the cell was only problem number one. Jensen had learned early all the blind spots, those little places guards and cameras didn’t reach, and he knew as well as anyone that it wasn’t possible to avoid all of them all the time. A person had to eat. A person had to shower.  
  
It didn’t take long for word to get out that he was unprotected. He counted himself lucky that he wasn’t a fish, at least. He’d been there for awhile, and under Jared’s protection he’d made a few allies. The cons who were interested in a prison bitch were mostly uninterested in Jensen now that there was fresher fish to fry. That didn’t mean he was in the clear, though, and it sure as hell didn’t mean he could let his guard down. And before he knew it, he had one of the Aryans sniffing him out.   
  
The guy went about it kindly at first. As kindly as one can go about that sort of thing, anyway. He went the whole “you need protection, I need power” route, and Jensen looked at him carefully, his shoulders tense, actually considering the offer for a minute. The guy was Jensen’s height, maybe ten, fifteen years older than him. Slope-shouldered and lean. He had gray in his beard and a good smile that only sort of reminded Jensen of a shark’s grin. In another life and had the guy not had a swastika tattooed across the span of his bicep, Jensen might have gone out with him.   
  
“Morgan, right?” Jensen said.   
  
“You’ve heard of me, huh kid?” he grinned.   
  
Jensen nodded.   
  
“What do you say?” Morgan said. “Hell, maybe we could even have some fun.”  
  
“I’m not a bitch,” Jensen said, firm.   
  
“You were Padalecki’s bitch,” Morgan countered.   
  
“Padalecki’s gone.” Jensen felt his stomach lurch at the words.  
  
Morgan sighed. “C’mon, kid. You know how this goes. I’m doing you a kindness here. You don’t say yes, I’m only gonna take what I want. I don’t have a choice. And I’m not small time like those other assholes who were sniffing around you when you first got here. There ain’t gonna be no con with a soft spot for strays to step up and protect you this time.”   
  
There was the _whump whump whump_ of the high-powered washers and dryers all around him. It was hot in the laundry, and he was sweating, his hair soaked with it, and Morgan had his jumpsuit unbuttoned and pulled off down to the waist. And he wasn’t even posturing. The man was that confident Jensen would say yes. Hell, he was probably responsible for Jensen’s work duty being switched from library to laundry. All the steam went out of Jensen when he thought of that, when he thought of just how very hard he was going to have to fight to protect himself going it alone. And he almost said yes, then. He let himself catch Morgan’s eyes, let his shoulders sag. But when Morgan smiled, reached his hand out and squeezed Jensen’s shoulder like they were old pals, Jensen wrenched himself backwards before even thinking. Jared’s face was too present in his mind; there was no room for thoughts of anything else.  
  
“This isn’t a good move, kid,” Morgan said. He sounded truly sorry.   
  
“Maybe not,” Jensen said. “But it’s the only move I have.”  
  
***  
  
Jensen had run a stoplight. He’d been drunk. He was the ultimate fucking cliché. He’d run a stoplight and he’d hit someone. Lucky for him, that someone didn’t die or his prison sentence would have been a hell of a lot longer.   
  
Jensen thought of that man every fucking second of every fucking minute of his life—the roundness of his eyes, the way they bulged slightly like a frog’s, and the rust colored freckles all over his face, and how Jensen had thought crazily, “I have freckles, too!” when he’d seen the man laying in the road, blood in a wide pool beneath his head, his leg at an angle that should have been impossible. He might have even said it aloud, but he didn’t remember.  
  
He hadn’t touched a drop since that day. Sober for the entire year leading up to his trial and prison sentence, sober in prison even though it was surprisingly easy to not be sober here.   
  
Morgan was smart. Morgan knew Jensen attended the NA and AA meetings. And Jensen started finding bottles of whiskey and jars of hooch in his laundry piles. Little temptations. And with the fear and the absolute longing for Jared so close and making his hands tremble like he was detoxing again, within a couple of weeks those little temptations became huge hurdles. It got harder and harder to pass the whiskey on to another inmate.   
  
Still, Jensen didn’t drink until Morgan made him drink. Until he was surrounded by skinheads and held down on his knees, a hand clenched in his hair holding his head tipped back, fingers digging into his jaw holding his mouth open, and Morgan above him, taking his time, pouring shot-sized pours of whiskey directly into his mouth and waiting patiently until Jensen swallowed each one. By the time the bottle was half empty, Jensen was boozed out and sick with it, his head buzzing, his mouth dry, his chin and shirt wet with drool and alcohol, his jaw aching like it had been broken. They didn’t even have to hold him while Morgan fucked his mouth, though they did anyway, Morgan making it worse by hooking a thumb over his teeth to keep his mouth in place and direct Jensen where he wanted him. When Morgan finished, pulled out, he smeared come and drool all over Jensen’s cheeks then grabbed him by the jaw, forced Jensen to meet his eyes.   
  
“That’s just a little something to make sure everyone knows you’re mine, sweetheart.” He shook Jensen by the face, and Jensen thought for a moment that he was going to vomit all over Morgan’s shoes. “Now. I’ve got a nice, cozy cot all set up for you in my cell. You’re gonna walk back there with me like a good boy, and you aren’t gonna put up a fuss. You do, and I’ll make sure the guards know about the little liquor trade you’ve got set up down here.” Morgan moved Jensen’s head up and down for him in a parody of compliance.   
  
Things were surprisingly easy for Jensen after that. Morgan gave him booze, Jensen got wasted, let Morgan fuck him and parade Jensen around like the bitch he was, and Jensen remained numb until the alcohol wore off and he didn’t know if he was hung over or physically ill from the thought of who he’d become.   
  
_On the outside_  
  
Jensen had nightmares. Christ he had nightmares, and Jared had no clue what to do about them. Jensen stayed over at Jared’s apartment now more often then he didn’t, and every time he woke Jared with his nightmares. They weren’t kicking and screaming nightmares. It wasn’t like Jensen woke up sobbing and gasping for breath. But Jared could feel him slide into the nightmares all the same, his body going from warm and pliant and all wrapped up in Jared to tense, his jaw clenched, the cords in his neck standing out, all the hairs on his arms raised. He would breathe quickly through his nose, and Jared would smooth a hand across his back, through his hair, down his arm. He’d drag soft fingers along the line of Jensen’s jaw. That usually did the trick. Usually Jensen would respond to the touch, and he’d either wake up, wide and aware eyes staring at Jared as if he’d been awake the whole time, or he’d slide deeper into sleep where he either wasn’t dreaming anymore or where his body couldn’t respond to the dream.  
  
Jared liked it better when Jensen woke. Maybe it was selfish of him because God knows Jensen didn’t sleep enough, but Jared liked it because he liked knowing that Jensen knew Jared was there for him. When Jensen woke after a nightmare, Jared would grip him beneath the arms, manhandle him up and around until he was blanketed over Jared, a warm, wriggly, Jensen blanket, his stubble scratching at Jared’s neck and shoulder as Jensen found a comfortable place to burrow himself into Jared’s skin. Neither one of them would fall asleep immediately on nights like this. Instead, Jared talked and Jensen listened. Jared talked about the book he’d read that day, about the highlands of Scotland, about the way an iceberg sounds when it breaks off from a sheet of arctic ice. He talked about the dogs he wanted and the house he’d never had and the funny thing his sister had said that day and he talked and talked and Jensen just listened.


End file.
